


Of the Night

by mycrofts_brolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mary Doesn't Exist, Depression, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Smut, Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mycroft's Meddling, Post-Case, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Supernatural Abilities, Travel, running away from your problems helps sometimes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-07-14 04:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7153046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycrofts_brolly/pseuds/mycrofts_brolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, things go wrong. Very wrong. This is the story of how someone tried to make them right, or at least try to put some bandages on wounds that wouldn't seem to heal.</p><p>**HIATUS**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd give writing up some angst and emotions a go, and these two were the perfect choice. Hopefully I'll be putting out updates once or twice a week during the summer, and I'm aiming to finish this before university starts back up in the fall. Happy reading!

The office had long since grown quiet. Having dismissed his team a few hours ago after a particularly brutal case involving a child, Greg found himself wandering around in his little box of an office as if trying to abandon the lurking nightmares in the dust mote filled shadows lining the corners. Most men his age would have retired home by this aching hour of the early dawn, but not DI Lestrade. The only thing waiting for him at his dingy flat was an emptiness he couldn’t fill himself, and instead was filled with the throbbing numb agony left from the death that tagged after him like a lost child. Sighing, the DI sat in his worn and abused chair, rocking his head against his palms for a few minutes.  
  


He didn’t get long to rest his tired eyes as the body of the child and his sightless eyes mocked him even with his eyes closed. Face contorting into a sloppy mess of dried tears, heart wrenching pain, blinding anger, and defiance to death, Greg brushed a few stray papers off his desk in an outburst of frustration.  
  


Crying out, Greg’s words were muffled and incoherent besides a few cusses directed at himself and the great self centered arse named Sherlock Holmes. They’d been so close, so agonizingly close, to capturing the parents’ murderer and the child’s kidnapper that Greg had asked the child’s godparents to head to St. Bart’s to wait for the child after things were cleared. He’d been at the door of the bloody house with a rarely carried gun holstered to his hip. He’d been ready, prepared to close the case with the happiest ending possible, and had shouldered the door open, yelling out a warning to those in the building.  
  


Still hearing the echoes of splintering wood and the quiet cacophony from entering the house, Greg let out a sharp whimpering breath. Retreating back to the chair behind the messy desk, Lestrade glanced down at the calendar and the computer screen in an attempt to distract the course of his thoughts, but found himself a mere earthen dam in the onslaught of a hundred year’s rain that was delivered over-night.  
  


Sinking down into the chair, Greg was painfully aware of how badly his team, and even Sherlock Holmes, had failed in this case. They’d busted into a family’s home in the middle of the night. The house hadn’t a single trace of the child they were looking for, even after an hour’s search and questioning the obviously terrified but willing to help parents of two that lived in the house. Greg had made the choice to send who he could to the other houses on the street, checking in and asking if anyone had seen anyone suspicious.  
With the tang of gunpowder in his mouth and the racket of a gunfight in his ears, Greg rested his head on the desk. The suspect had been armed, and hadn’t hesitated when using the weaponry at hand when cornered and at the end of it all. Coroners had suspected that the child had been the first casualty. Whether the suspect had panicked, or had just given up, they wouldn’t know, but Greg was certain that he was to blame for the child’s death, if it was even indirectly. He’d been the one to order the team to go house to house. He’d been the one in charge on this case… And he’d failed horrifically.  
  


Greg didn’t hear the opening of his door, the only thing giving notice that someone was in the room with him was a spreading warmth on his shoulder. Flinching away from it was Greg’s first instinct, but it wasn’t the one he wanted to give into. Instead, the DI relaxed against it, the crisp scent of fresh vanilla, Earl Grey tea that certainly cost more than his weekly salary, and an aftershave that hinted at a meadow surrounding him in a mental security blanket.  
  


“Gregory,” The Antarctic voice began speaking from behind him, something melting the edges of the freezing tone, “It is four twenty six in the morning, and John is concerned that you haven’t replied to any of his nineteen texts, or any of Sherlock’s four. My mother has informed me of how… Worrying it can be to be so negligent when it comes to replying during troubling times.”  
  


Mycroft Holmes. Greg was certain he’d breached the thin line of insanity he’d been walking since the Holmes had started causing discord in his life. First, Sherlock had gotten him to risk his job, his reputation, his life even, just because Greg had been certain that Sherlock could be a better man than the addict he had been once. Secondly, Mycroft had waltzed in on those willowy long legs of his with such a thinly veiled excuse of a position that Gregory had worried for his job and existence as Gregory Aldric Lestrade if he even so much as failed Sherlock once. Then Sherlock had revealed his cheating wife, Mycroft had sent him off to Baskerville like a puppet, and the two of them had become a ruling totem in Greg’s life whether he enjoyed it or not.  
  


Mycroft’s presence wasn’t being properly processed by the exhausted DI’s mind. The eldest Holmes brother sighed wearily, and dropped a bag of Thai take out on the poor excuse of a clean desk, “Sherlock has slept more than you in the past week, Gregory, and that is enough cause for concern. What’s far worse is that your flat hasn’t seen its occupant since the beginning of your last case.” Gregory made a disagreeing noise that fell on indifferent ears, “Don’t protest, Gregory.”  
  


“Why do you keep calling me bloody ‘Gregory’? Would it hurt you to stoop to a commoner’s level and call me Greg or Lestrade like everyone else, Mycroft?” The words lacked any sort of venom and had a sinking tone to them as Greg’s own emotions were left scattered on the floor. It was a common debate between the two whenever they met over a coffee, take out, or strong alcohol to talk about Sherlock’s latest antics.  
  


Ignoring the demand, Mycroft started to open the take-out with a gentle kind of care that Greg’s crying puffed eyes watched intently. Greg was quite sure that a kind of care that particular and cushioned was often reserved for expensive family heirlooms, like an old piano or violin. Did the two genius brothers play an instrument, his tired mind wandered, seeking a distraction.  
  


The scent of the food wafted over Greg, and he slowly peeled himself off of the desk to survey Mycroft’s gift. His favorite, red curry, sat in the middle neatly laid out for him as an offering Greg knew he didn’t deserve. Mycroft knew him too well sometimes.  
  


“Don’t look at the food like it’s just given you indigestion, Gregory. I know you’re of the belief that you don’t deserve any niceties given that you lost an innocent, however, as much as it pains me to say this cliche, it happens. You cannot possibly save everyone no matter how much time you devot, no matter how much you refine your skills.” Mycroft’s voice was the best type of distraction from the numbness of his heart, Gregory supposed, and he let the other continue on despite his own thoughts, “No one could have known that you’d been set up, that a key informant had been paid off to give misguided information. My brother has absolute trust in his network of homeless people, and they’ve been-”  
  


Greg’s eyes snapped up from the food laid out in front of him, “No, Mycroft. Don’t go making excuses for your brother right now. Just don’t.” There were edges and barriers around his tone, and Mycroft glanced away as he fished out the remaining food and napkins. Best not to argue with Gregory when he was lost like this.  
  


“I will not. I was going to go on to explain how he needs to rely on them far less, and use his own deduction skills, however the circumstances of the case prompted him to act far more restlessly and impulsively. I can assure you, he did not want to endanger that child anymore than you did. It is a sad day, Gregory, but it is over. You cannot repair what has happened, instead, all you can do is move forwards.” Mycroft sat in one of the less than glamorous chairs across from the desk, crossing his legs prissily without a wasted second.  
  


Sighing raggedly, Gregory let the pain wash over him anew at Mycroft’s words. He’d never been able to accept the loss of an innocent on a case, and he’d typically take a day or two off from work to pick up the shattered pieces of his confidence and abilities. Yet, with Sherlock, he hadn’t done this as often as he had in the past, and Greg knew he’d gotten too comfortable with having success after success.  
  


Finally, Greg started to eat as Mycroft’s eyes of an indistinguishable color rested on him from the opposite side of the office. Mycroft hummed an odd tune that Greg could almost place from a childhood memory, but fell short a couple of notes to make a full identification of the song. The quiet ease lasted for another fifteen minutes that was ended with the noise of the first early shift of the day arriving on the floor. Five am had come far too soon, and Thai food wasn’t the most agreeable meal to eat for breakfast anyday. As the officers slunk in, a few with mugs in their hands, Mycroft looked to Gregory and stood to start the cleaning process, “I understand the answer to this question either way, but I believe we are both under the notion that you need a week’s break from working at NSY, Gregory. I have a conference abroad and I could use a bodyguard or at least a companion to play a game of chess. Of course, you’d be allowed to pursue whatever activities you’d like to without me.”  
  


Gregory ran a shaky hand through his hair as his mental processes tried to sift through what Mycroft had offered him. He couldn’t deny that he needed a break that didn’t involve work, and the offered companionship was something he often found himself enjoying, but at the same time, Greg was quite aware he had some personal matters to figure out by himself. Managing a minute head shake that was just enough to close the topic, Greg stood and gathered the leftovers to bring home, “I can’t, Mycroft. Not now. Between the paperwork for this clusterfuck, dealing with Sherlock- I mean, I can’t leave John to deal with him alone after this- and some leftover paperwork from the last few cases I had to put on hold, I can’t afford to take a vacation.” Rubbing at the back of his neck, Greg shuffled his way out of the office and by Mycroft only to pause mid-step and glance over his shoulder at the government employee , “Thank you, Mycroft… For everything. I needed that.”  
  


Mycroft nodded curtly in reply, “It was no issue.” The younger man watched Gregory leave, managing not to wince when Greg nearly bowled over some poor intern on an early coffee run. He locked the door behind him, and took his own leave.  


A light faintly illuminated a tiny expanse of Greg’s desk from inside the office. The mobile lit up on more time, a message on the screen reading, **‘Mycroft is in danger- SH’.**


	2. Missing Persons 1 and 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the slow update! Life got in the way as it always does. 
> 
> Chapter titles are taken from songs that inspired some of the writing. This chapter was helped along by Missing Persons One and Two by One Republic aaa

The stairs up to the apartment never seemed to end, and never seemed to grow familiar no matter how many times Gregory climbed them. Trudging up the poorly lit stairwell to the second floor of the complex, Gregory exhaled sharply. The door wasn't a welcoming sight and it weighed heavily on Greg’s shoulders. 

This apartment was a reminder of his failed marriage. Of his failed life in general, honestly. At least he had his office and his job with the team, and the consulting detective and his shadow. As Greg paused at the door step and stared at it with a grimace on his face, his mind wandered to Mycroft’s offer earlier. His hand fished in his jacket’s pocket for his door’s key, and his train of thought was derailed when he realized that the pocket wasn't weighed down like it should have been. 

Throat constricting, Gregory’s hand floundered in his pocket while his panic rose. “Goddamn phone… Where are you?” He hissed, checking the other pocket, the first pocket again, and then frantically pacing the floor in front of his door. Last place he had it had been… “Fucking hell.” His phone had to be back in his office. Although close to NSY, the walking was not something the ragged and worn officer was willing to repeat at roughly six am when running on empty and then some. Gregory grumbled. The phone would be on his desk when he went in tomorrow.

Slipping the key from his pocket, Gregory unlocked the door and walked inside. It took him two steps inside to lose the jacket in a pile on the ground despite the coat hanger only be a foot or two further. Not bothering to turn the lights on to let his eyes worry over the sad sight of his empty apartment, Gregory dragged himself to the bedroom with heavy feet. He slumped onto the cold surface of the bed that hadn't seen its owner in several days. The blankets were stale, like the air, and Gregory didn't care. 

With light filtering in through the blinds over the windows that overlooked the street, the room had a ghostly emptiness about it that was only worsened by the strict shadows. Gregory didn't mind. He'd slept in far worse lighting than some broken street lamp light, and it was only a few moments before sleep claimed him.

 --------------------------

“Gerald, get up. Now.” Gregory’s mind sluggishly identified the speaker. Sherlock.

How had that bastard gotten in here? 

Gregory grumbled, clutching at the pillow under his head like a lifeline. He felt something prod at his back, and knowing Sherlock it could be anything from a cattle prod to a hip bone to a flute. Another poke, and another grumble. Maybe if he laid still enough and focused hard enough on sleep, Sherlock would turn out to be just a cruel dream.

“Geoff.” Sherlock. Still. Not a dream then. 

“Sherlock. What the fuck?” Gregory pushed himself into a sitting position on limbs that had been kept still for too long. His joints protested with cracks and stiffness. 

Sherlock was standing beside the bed, but he had an expression of true worry on his face that wasn't evident in his voice. Confused and slightly startled by this realization, Gregory rubbed at his eyes to make sure he wasn't still asleep one last time. But no, the scene didn't change and Sherlock frowned, “Done trying to see if you can wake yourself up, Gale? If not, I'm sure this cattle prod would do the trick.” He held up the metal rod, waving it around like a lot firecracker. 

Steeling himself, Gregory sighed, “I'm done. Now, how and why the hell are you at my apartment? You're quite aware you're the last person I want to see now, Sherlock.” His tone was unaffected by the increasingly noticeable signs of distress from the slender man at the side of his bed. Sherlock shifted on his feet, seemingly unwilling to give an answer. “You fucked up, Sherlock. I shouldn't let you work on cases. I could've saved them. I could've. And you just… You fucked up!” The raw fury from the day before that had gone numb like a sore left to fester was flaring up painfully. Gregory trembled, still too exhausted and emotionally worn to express thoughts rationally, “I could've saved her….. I could've. But you! You…” His voice caught on a growl.

Sherlock’s composition shattered for an instant. His eyes darted to the floor as he shook his head slowly, “I tried, Gregory. Do you think I do The Work for my own? Do you believe me to be heartless?” His questions were so soft in the air, yet so heavy, that Greg wondered if he ever said them at all. 

Gregory’s hands clenched at his sides and he shut his eyes for a moment or two to compose himself before he said something he'd regret. “Next time… No. Don't let there be a next time.” Sherlock just nodded, stoic again. 

The two were at a silent standstill as the moonlight flickered through the blinds in the window. Gregory glanced at the bedside clock. The neon numbers seemed like a poor mockery of time measurement as they read ‘11:47 pm’. 

“What did you come here for, Sherlock?” Gregory asked, defeated with his own anger and now needing something else for his tired mind to focus on. 

The consulting detective’s worried expression returned, as if the brief confrontation had distracted Sherlock. He pointed to the second bedside drawer down, “Turn on the news.”

Knowing it would be pointless to ask Sherlock how he knew which drawer the remote was in, Gregory reached over and pulled it out. Sherlock glanced at the small, blocky TV poorly mounted to the wall, “You weren't responding to your texts… And I wasn't sure why. I had to stop by.”

Gregory felt a twist in his stomach, “Sherlock…?” The man shrugged, emotionless or maybe overrun with emotions he couldn't word, and Gregory stared down at the remote before turning on the TV. 

The news was the default channel, given Greg’s job. The TV’s image took Greg’s sluggish mind time to process. The first thing he was able to process from the overwhelming live broadcast was the newscaster standing in the field. He was frantically speaking into the microphone, eyeing the camera, and therefore Gregory, with an intense worry that burrowed itself right into Greg’s chest and caused an immediate panic.

It was then, when the panic started without any clear reason, that Gregory’s mind honed into what was behind the reporter. He should've noticed it first, but his poor mind hadn't wanted to.

The field behind the reporter was strewn with smoking wreckage that looked as if some God had come down and played carelessly with a jet. Nothing was aflame, but everything was certainly mangled beyond immediate recognition. The news reporter continued speaking, but his words were just a buzzing, vague noise to Greg’s ears.

Sherlock had put something into Greg’s lap. Gregory had to pry his eyes from the screen to glance down. It was a tan folder, one of those used for sorting and filing, and it had been stamped with the day’s date, and a time that was no more than an hour ago. Below the time and date was a feverish red stamp that read one word. And that singular word was ‘Confidential.’ Gregory thumbed at the corner of the folder with his heart cutting itself into pained pieces in his chest that rose one by one into his throat where they burned. 

“You may open it. Anthea requested I give it to you.” Sherlock’s voice was ice cold, stunned and shocked but not unfriendly. His hands shook as he rose from the edge of the bed. 

Gregory blinked down at the folder before glancing back at the screen across the room where the body count of the wreckage was being displayed. The number was surprisingly low, not breaching a dozen as it hovered at eight while emergency crews could be seen working in the blurred background. The folder’s contents beckoned. A side of a piece of paper peeked out from between the folder’s covers where familiar met with unusual and new. 

‘Mycroft Holmes.’  
‘Advisor’.  
‘Conference’.  
‘Mutations’.

The front leaf of the folder was opened wth a hesitant hand. Mycroft’s face met Gregory’s eyes in the form of a recent photograph taken at a gala of sorts. Gregory frowned. Sherlock sat back down. 

Slipping the photo out from under the paperclip, Gregory set it on the bed on the opposite side from where Sherlock was sitting. Under where the photo has been was a single piece of paper that read ‘Terminated.’

Gregory’s breathing stilled.


	3. The Draw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will often not happen this often! I had some free time to finish up the this chapter early.  
> \---
> 
> This chapter was inspired by The Draw by Bastille

The word stared back at Gregory as his chest tightened into knots. It was hard to breathe with that bloodied word, red in ink and emotion, glaring up off the paper. Sherlock fidgeted, before reaching over, dragging the piece of paper off of the stack below it, and tapping on the next piece once. 

“But that-“ Gregory stammered, trying to reach for the removed piece. He needed to see it to verify the rising panic and to connect it to the news on screen. 

Sherlock sighed and crumpled the paper, “Is none of your concern.” His voice was unsteady. He glanced at the TV screen with quickly darting eyes, “What matters is what else is in that folder and why Anthea wanted you, of all people, to see it. There are other important documents in there as I'm sure you're aware of.”

At a loss as to what to do and what to consider, Gregory refocused on the TV screen and ignored everything Sherlock had said, “Your brother… Is he alive?” 

“The chances are… Unsatisfactory.” Sherlock answered after hesitating. His hands fidgeted at his side, anxious, “But I assure you, what he was doing needs to be finished. And you're the only one for this.” He tapped on the next piece of paper again. 

Gregory’s eyes felt dry like the desert before an engulfing rain. He rubbed at them, trying to divert the oncoming tears. Mycroft hadn't been what one could typically consider a friend, but there had been something resembling a typical friendship with either of the Holmeses. His chest heaved. The tightening behind his chest coiled and burned, stretching up his throat and wrapping around it like a noose. Stammering for breath, Gregory felt light headed. Mycroft Holmes, the paper pushing government official who was everything but typical, was dead. 

“Lestrade.” That bugger just didn't give up. Gregory felt a hand rest on his shoulder lightly. “If he is no longer with us, I will make sure you're the first to know. And I will be here for you as you were for me.” 

Letting out a constricted sob that threatened to crumble into a mourning keen, Gregory slumped forwards and rested his head in his heads to try to reign in his emotions. There was a remaining tinge of guilt as the next few minutes passed sluggishly with the TV newscast continuing. He sat back up with a weak shudder, “Thank you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock nodded once, “It's the least I can do.” He paused, eyeing the TV again as it flickered to the weather, “You need to get the plane crash and see if you can find anything there.” It was an abrupt change of subject. Gregory balked. “My brother was on that plane. If you had taken his offer, you'd be in a similar situation with the same note tucked into your folder.” Uncertainty was perched on Sherlock’s face. 

“So… Mycroft was on that plane. The one on the news...” Gregory echoed back. His hands trembled as he started to shift through the papers in Mycroft’s folder to find anything that would quell this aching loss of a friend. 

“Yes,” Sherlock’s voice had an odd tone to it, one Greg couldn't place, “Terminated doesn't always mean dead, but we need to get you on scene to make sure Mycroft isn't among the victims.”

Gregory hesitated as his eyes caught sight of a mostly blacked out piece of paper with only a few words that were still uncovered. His eyes flicked up to Sherlock, “What about Anthea? Isn't she always with him?” Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything about the PA of the mysterious definitely not just a paper pushing government official.

There was a sour sigh from Sherlock, “She stayed in the country due to Mycroft’s request. Yet, he invited you along as a guard instead. I don’t see my brother’s logic.” Frustrated, Sherlock flopped backwards on Gregory’s bed as if he owned it. Gregory, well used to Sherlock’s antics like a bedraggled older brother, snorted at Sherlock admitting indirectly that he didn't understand something.

“I should've recorded that for the team to hear. I'm sure Anderson would get a kick out of you admitting you don't know something.” Needing something to distract himself from the weight settling on his shoulders, Gregory laid his hands over the papers. It felt wrong, as if he was violating someone's privacy, to be reading Mycroft’s file. Or whatever this was of the elder Holmes. 

Sherlock growled, “You wouldn't dare. Besides, you forgot your phone at the office.”

“…. Bugger.” A foot jabbed Gregory in the side. How was it that Sherlock’s entire body was more bony than a damn skeleton? Swatting away the foot, Gregory’s eyes darted to the uncovered and nearly blacked out paper that topped the stack of about five or six other similarly decorated pieces of paper. “Sherlock… The hell kind of files are these? And why did Anthea want me to see them?” He stared cluelessly at the black bars of ink covering the paper except for a few key words like ‘trouble, department head, plan, investigated’ and ‘changed’. It seemed like the regular cryptically confidential government file, except Mycroft’s personal handwriting was on the top left corner that read ‘handled personally, target escaped and fled. Will pursue., as if this was Mycroft’s personal file that he'd kept in his own office as one might keep sticky notes. 

The detective sat up suddenly with a grin on his face from ear to ear, “So you've realized that these aren't just regular files? You're right. These are my brother’s personal files, ones he's copied or made himself for… Record keeping of sorts.” He tutted, “Anthea knew Mycroft asked for your help, and neither of us can reason why.”

“I can't think of a reason either. He stopped in after the last case, offered me food, and offered me a get away for a week. He seemed off kilter and… Distant.” Gregory reflected back to the night before. Mycroft’s appearance had been impeccable like always, but there was a strain in his eyes Gregory could see more clearly now that his thoughts weren't entirely clouded over with the poison of the case’s aftermath. There was a tint of grief as Gregory’s attention drifted to the newscast that was still running and had switched back to the wreckage of the plane. Mycroft was likely laying somewhere just beyond the boundaries of the camera’s vision, limp and-

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Lestrade, don't focus on the TV. This file is a case, it's a break, it's going to get you out of here for a bit while things here settle down again. You need to figure out what my brother was getting into, and you need to get to the bottom of it. If he was investigating it, there's a chance it could affect national security, and considering that the private plane he was on is now sitting in a field, I find it doubtful that he wasn't getting close to whatever he was looking for.” He slowly worked at flattening out the crumpled piece of paper with that single word on it, “I doubt… He's dead. Anthea would have notified us by now if his body had been recovered. And there's no notices on the report about a dead government official, just the pilots and the crew. Mycroft was on that plane, and now he's not in the wreckage.”

Gregory’s mind sluggishly caught up while he shuffled through the other papers in the file, “Terminated could reference something else, not Mycroft.” He thought aloud as the information on the confidential papers soaked in. A particular segment was completely unmarked. 

‘The security for Sector Nine was raised in accordance to the director’s request. Sector Nine will continue to operate normally despite the issues faced earlier this week. The department advises removal of subjects from the sector within the next year, however.’

“Subjects?” Blinking Gregory dropped the piece onto Sherlock’s lap, “Sherlock… Your brother was onto some sort of monitoring program.”

Sherlock took a look at the brief paragraph, “It's possible. Considering that the word ‘mutations’ appears on the lower half of the next blocked out section, I'd say it was testing and not monitoring.”

The paper was returned to his lap, and Gregory slipped into the file, which he closed with care, “So… You want me to go to wherever this plane crashed, figure out what happened to it and your brother, and find Mycroft.”

“It's preferable. I would go with John, but we’d attract too much attention, and if whoever was tracking Mycroft found Mycroft in the first place, we’d be found within hours. You're… Typical. Won't be suspected as quickly and have some skills that my brother clearly loves to exploit.” Sherlock muttered. It sounded as if he were disappointed that he wouldn't be going on this investigation himself. He dropped a mobile into Greg’s lap, “This will work where you're going. Your ticket is on the app.” Sherlock stood and grabbed the remote, turning off the TV before fixing and adjusting his jacket’s collar, “You should also leave a note to yourself on the mirror next to your door to remind yourself to lock the door at night.” 

Gregory watched, overwhelmed and slightly dumbfounded, as Sherlock turned on his heel and left just like that. The bastard always seemed inclined to help, but only for a brief period of time before leaving everything to its own. He heard the door to the apartment click open then shut. 

His attention turned to the mobile on his lap. It was more modern and valuable than his current flip phone model, and as soon as he clicked the screen on an image of him out cold on the bed was on the smart phone’s background. “Damn Sherlock.” He muttered without acid. It wasn't his best picture ever. He was still in his suit from work yesterday, shirt and pants ruffled, with even his worn socks on. Leave it to Sherlock to set that as a phone background.

The phone was unlocked, luckily enough, and Gregory immediately located the flight app as there were only four apps installed other than the calling and texting app. He frowned as the phone was already connected to his secure wifi. The app came to life, showing only one booked flight to Boston from Heathrow that was due to depart in two hours. Cussing, Gregory sprung from the bed, tossing the blankets into a mess as he scrambled to pack a bag. 

Mycroft’s folder was the first thing tucked into the bag, followed by several day’s change of informal touristy clothing, two button-up shirts and a decent pair of slacks. Boxers followed suit, along with a multitude of mismatched socks. Gregory paused by the tiny closet, eyeing some ties before he carelessly tossed random ones in that, if he was lucky, would go with the shirts. 

Twenty minutes and one packed bag later, Gregory departed his lonely flat in a hurry with the weight of the new phone and this new case heavy in his pocket. He didn't realize he'd forgotten to pack any bathroom supplies until he saw a discrete sticky note on a stop sign as he speed walked down the empty sidewalks that was clearly in Sherlock’s handwriting. 

‘You forgot your bathroom supplies, Gerald.’

“Fucking hell. I'll just buy some when I get there!” He shouted at the sticky, taking it and folding it up before waving down a taxi. Stepping in, Gregory shouldered his pack to the other side of the back seats and gave the driver directions before sitting back to enjoy the ride.

\-----------> 4 hours earlier: North America 

The sun filtered through the sugar maple canopy as the silver car drove along the rural road. The driver leaned back in her seat with the windows wide open, desperate for any relief from the sweltering heat. It'd been a long day at the summer camp, and she was desperate to get home and boot up the lap top to video chat with her friends from college. Sighing, she paused while reaching to change the radio station. 

The air was filled with a low droning noise that rattled the car. Panic crossed the girl’s face, and she muted the radio with a firm poke. The noise grew steadily louder, the car shaking along with the trees. She couldn't hear herself think as everything was filled with the rumbling.

It was then that a disturbingly low plane flew over the tops of the trees so low that a few branches clattered onto the roof of the car. 

“Holy fuck.” She slammed on the brakes. Peering out the window with her throat on fire with panic, the girl watched as the plane got lower and lower and lower, aiming for Farmer Jone’s back field. Putting the gas to the floor, she whipped the car around as the plane’s trajectory put it into a highly likely scenario for a crash. There was a well stocked first aid kit in the back, a result of a mixture of her training as an EMT and prior circumstances. 

Her eyes remained fixed on the plane as it drifted with smoking engines over the tree tops, ever lower as it aimed for the open space not more than a mile down the road. It was a discrete jet, solid grey and a bit too large for any typical flight over the town. Picking up her cell, she dialed 9-1-1 without hesitation.

“Hey, it's Eleanor Price. There's a low flying plane losing altitude out on Moose Pine Road, and it's-“ Eleanor’s voice cut off.

“Eleanor? Are you there? There's a plane…?”

A breathless intake of air as Eleanor tried to comprehend what she just saw, “There… Was a plane.” She stammered, throwing the old beater into a speed that was well over the narrow unmarked road’s speed limit. Trees flew by as debris rained down in hand sized pieces, “It just…. I don't know how to explain it… Disintegrated… As it was coming down. There are still a few large parts that appear to be the main hull coming down that are going directly for Abe Jone’s eastern back field.” 

She hung up, feeling her attention on the road drifting as the phone call lingered and debris started coming down. Chest constricting as air seemed hard to get, the logical side of Eleanor’s thoughts shut right down after witnessing what she had. Nothing just… Broke apart like that… It hadn't even broken along the construction lines on the hull, which had been no more than forty or fifty feet above her on the belly of the plane, but it had just shattered like a fragile light bulb. Eleanor pressed the gas all the way down, feeling the car drift around the corners. The field was right ahead as she slammed on the brakes, turning onto a tractor path that had a clear view of the back field. 

The car shuddered to a stop right there. Eleanor’s eyes flew wide as the car died and the shrieking of the shattered and crashing jet filled her ears to the point where she wanted to scream out in ragged pain. Her eyes fixated on the point in front of her in the field as the jet’s debris rained down. For a moment, everything was frozen. 

Then someone knocked on the window.


	4. Who Are You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dear god writing this almost killed me. inspired by C2C's song 'Who are you'. next update will be longer, I promise.

\---11 hours after the crash: North America

Gregory’s head swam as he stumbled off of the plane into the terminal. Maybe he'd had a few too many cups of alcohol on that flight over, but Sherlock had booked him first class and the emotionally worn DI was certainly going to use that particular outlet for the emotions that remained. 

So, his feet slipped as he made his way past the rows of the cheaply made plastic chairs full of strangers he'd never have to see again. Not a single face rang as familiar, and varied accents that could be found in airport terminals rocked his already unsteady mind. He paused, leaning against a pillar just across from the stores. People milled about around Gregory, unconcerned and busy in their own ways. It was only when the rush from disembarking from the plane wore off that Gregory sluggishly realized he'd left his luggage, the only bag he'd brought from London that had the file in it, back on the plane.

Heart rate skyrocketing, the drunken man rushed through the terminal as fast as he could manage without running. How could he have forgotten the one thing Mycroft had left him? Not to mention the file was likely highly sensitive in terms of material, and not something that should be put into anyone’s hands. 

Gregory’s shoes slapped against the file flooring as he pushed by people, shoving them aside with a shoulder. He'd only gotten ten or so feet through the crowded area, his eyes and mind barely coordinating enough to keep him on his feet as people swore at him. There's only so much that an intoxicated body and mind can do, however, and Gregory found this out swiftly. He wasn't able to process the presence of someone crossing in front of him quick enough for him to react, and when he tried to sidestep, Greg only ended up leaning to one side and running smack into the man.

Falling straight down onto his rear with a solid thud, Gregory inhaled sharply and pushed himself up on the slippery floor with a little difficulty. The stranger hadn't moved, but his Oxfords tapped impatiently on the flooring with punctuating clacking. A few people had stopped around them, before moving on after watching the DI struggle to rise to his feet. 

Gregory first caught sight of his worn canvas bag at the man’s side. Anger rose like bile in the back of his throat as his eyes rose in tandem. It was then that the stripping of the suit and the man’s posture struck a chord in Gregory's chest that unraveled the bundle of nerves Greg was unaware he'd buried during the flight. 

“Oh, no. You bastard.” It was a snarl. A challenge. Mycroft flinched, arm stopping midway to handing the carry on bag to Gregory. Gregory reached forwards, but not for the bag, burying a clenched hand into the collar of the taller man’s suit. Mycroft paled and reached up with his free hand to sternly remove Greg’s hand.

People were starting to stare. There was a flush to Mycroft’s cheeks that was likely from frustration, and Gregory’s hand turned into a fist at his side. Mycroft glanced around with those vaguely colored eyes of his, tutted, and handed the bag to Greg with his standard grace, “Come along, DI Lestrade.” He turned on his heel.

The bag heavy in his arms, Gregory knew what the right choice here was, “Nope. Not doing this your way, Holmes.” He slung the bag over his shoulder and headed in the other direction. 

Sharp staccato footsteps that had been heading the other way behind Gregory stopped with a politely hissed cuss. Those same footsteps started heading in Gregory’s direction, and the fuzzy minded DI grinned stupidly as Mycroft followed after him. Served the prick right, honestly. It wasn't as if Greg had just rushed to another continent after seeing a plane wreck that was supposed to have killed the man pursuing him. No, of course it wasn't unreasonable for him to feel the fury rising, a vile creature that wanted to tear right out of his chest and give the man behind him more than just a piece of his mind. With the weight of such words, a piece here could have been called a concrete block. It could wait, Gregory decided, as Mycroft stuck to his side like glue through the customs and check out. 

Mycroft didn't a speak a word throughout the entire process beyond showing a fake passport. Greg’s eyes stared at the page of the passport Mycroft produced, and he frowned just enough for the other to notice. 

The two made their way to the exit of the airport with the silence hanging between them, fueled by anger and frustration from Gregory and odd pair waited at the curb for a ride. Mycroft didn’t once glance at his companion. There was a rift growing in the space separating them that both of them were more than aware of when the car finally arrived. 

Slipping into the cab, Mycroft scooted all the way to the other side, and Gregory followed suit but only after he’d placed the duffel bag in the middle of the seat to divide them. Mycroft’s eyes hesitated on the bag for a brief moment. Maybe he was going crazy but Gregory could almost swear that he could see a cousin of regret in Mycroft’s uncolored eyes. Snorting to himself, the DI glanced out the window as the car pulled away from the curb and headed off to god knew where. 

Boston passed by the cab as it sped off onto the highway and headed north. Gregory’s head pounded with a foreboding headache of the upcoming hangover. Slumping against the door, he tried to focus on the dull growl of the tires on the highway and the gentle movements as the car moved along. 

It wasn’t long before sleep took Gregory under. 

 

\---- 2 hours later

Gregory stammered awake when the car’s driver stepped on the brakes a little too fast to keep him situated in the seat comfortably. He went sprawling forwards, catching his shoulder on the seat belt. Grumbling, the DI opened his eyes to the light of a weak dawn and he realized that maybe drinking after the past week’s events and crossing time zones likely hadn’t been his best idea for his age. 

The door across the cab slammed shut. Gregory reflexively jumped, scooting up closer to the window and grabbing at his duffel bag as his tired mind booted itself up to process how he’d even gotten here. His watch glowed in the pale light of the cab. “Goddamn.” It was barely past seven am. And yet, here he was with the very much not dead Mycroft Holmes, who was currently staring intently through the door at the ragged NSY officer. “Fucking bastard.”

There was a click of the door handle as Mycroft opened the door. Struggling to keep himself from falling out of the car, Gregory half tumbled out into a standing position and glared at the well put together man in front of him. He reached back to grab his bag, tugging it across the seat and holding it close to his chest as his eyes took in the sight in front of him. They were somewhere, that’s about all his mind could put together. 

A large colonial style house sat under overarching branches of oaks next to the pull in along the road. Gregory rubbed at his eyes as the faint sun flittered through the oaks, and he stumbled forwards onto the curb to watch the cab pull away. There was no sign to give Gregory any information on where he was. Mycroft didn’t hesitate on heading inside without a single word to the silver haired DI. It was almost certain that this entire situation was only going to make Gregory’s silver hair go white soon.

Too tired and overwhelmed to think about everything, Gregory made his way up to the porch of the house with heavy steps, following behind Mycroft with the bag slung up onto his shoulders. Despite it being seven am, the DI was sluggish and worn, feeling sleep tugging at his arms and legs as he tried to weave his thoughts with emotions and memories, Gregory found that he was unable to even think clearly. Mycroft paused, glancing over his shoulder as they reached the door and he frowned. The Ice Man sighed, opening the door for Gregory and ushering him inside. 

Gregory slumped forwards. The alcohol and lack of sleep, along with stress and high strung emotions had worn him down to the point where he no longer had the energy to walk. Mycroft’s typically indifferent expression turned to one of concern as the man fell to the wooden floor of the house, and he barely managed to catch the man. 

Mycroft glanced down at Gregory as he supported the other on his shoulder after catching him. He faltered under the weight, but managed to make his way through the safe house to a couch where he deposited the man without a second thought. The worn couch sagged under the weight of the sleeping Lestrade. Taking up a seat in the recliner next to the couch, Mycroft sighed, placing his head in his hands.


	5. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two updates in one night! that last chapter I had to write up so we could get to the part where some answers are given, and hopefully some more questions are raised. Enjoy! 
> 
> \---
> 
> Chapter title inspired by Summer done by Imagine Dragons
> 
> \------

\--Right after the crash: North America

Eleanor’s ears crackled with the intensity of the knocking on her window. It was hard to tear her eyes from the scene unfolding in front of her as the pieces of the plane tumbled from the sky and ripped the grass on the field to shreds. The earth shook, and the knocks continued. 

For the next few minutes, it was as if someone had shut off Eleanor’s ability to think, and she just stared out of the front window of her car to watch as the plane pieces all crashed down and started smoldering. The knocks grew more persistent. She finally shook herself out of the frozen state, and turned to look out the window.

The blue eyes were the first familiar feature to Eleanor’s wary eyes. Caleb’s hand stopped mid-knock above the window pane as he realized Eleanor had finally turned to face him. He slowly opened the door, slunk into the passenger seat, and sat next to her as they waited for the emergency crews to arrive. 

“I… I don’t think my kit in the b-back would help anyone now.” Eleanor whispered as the sirens drew nearer. The smoke was starting to obscure the site by now, and it was starting to invade the car’s interior. Eleanor wasn’t sure if she’d ever get the burning sulfuric smell of metal and grass and god only knows what else out of her nose and her car’s seats. 

Caleb glanced at her with concern, glancing out at the wreckage strewn about the field, “No… But you came here to try to help. It wasn’t something you could change, Eleanor.” He was shaken as well, his hands trembling on the dash and his eyes frightfully dilated as they sat there in wait. 

“I… I know.” Silence fell on the car as they waited. Eleanor sighed raggedly and leaned back, looking out over the field as the flashing lights of the police cars and ambulances and fire trucks pulled up in a line through the narrow passageway of one of the many field roads onto the open area. It was an awfully apocalyptic scene as the emergency responders all rushed out to scour the wreck, and Eleanor just watched. 

Give it a few hours, and she knew the news crews would be up. 

Stepping out of the car, she walked around the back, grabbed her kit and ID and left Caleb in the car. The very least she could do was offer her help.

It was needed.

\------> 12:45 pm North America

Gregory awoke to someone sneezing. He bolted upright, the noise having been turned into something far more dangerous in his nightmare, and glanced around the room with urgency. Nothing was familiar here, save for the man sitting in the chair across from him who was glancing up over the edge of a manilla folder. 

That man was supposed to be very dead.

A grimace rose on Gregory’s face when Mycroft’s eyes darted back down to the folder. Feeling a rising tide of anger, betrayal and regret, Gregory crossed his arms across his chest and leaned forwards, eyes narrowed. Mycroft huffed, as if dismissing the aggressive front from his former acquaintance, and the two remained at the silent standoff for more than just a few minutes. 

A current of confusing questions and emotions swamped Gregory’s mind, and he finally cracked the silence with a snarl, “You were on that plane.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in surprise. He put the folder down, crossed his legs and removed his reading glasses in a few swift, graceful movements but there was a jerkiness there that Gregory instantly recognized as nervousness, “No, I wasn’t.” The reply was cold, distant, unlike the Mycroft Gregory had seen last back in NSY which felt like a lifetime ago. 

“You should have been.” The DI retorted, hands clenching at his sides. Mycroft was utterly frustrating, and Gregory knew that he deserved answers from this mysterious government man, “What the hell is going on, Mycroft? First you ask me to accompany you, leave Anthea in London, and apparently rope your brother into edging me into going to that damned crash! Not to mention that this strange little personal folder Sherlock gave me outlines something incredibly odd and worrisome, and it’s got your name all over it like some five year old scribbling all over the wall. And now we’re here, and you’re there, and don’t tell me that plane accident wasn’t aimed at you. There’s something going on, and after all this, I have a damned right to know what you’ve gotten into, Mr. High-And-Mighty Holmes!”

Mycroft tensed, and tried to speak but was unable to break through the wall of pained words thrown up into the air. He folded his hands in his lap and waited for Gregory to stop. Once silence had returned, Mycroft sighed, “Gregory.” The DI glared at him at the use of his full name, but didn’t comment. Momentarily caught between explaining and denying, Mycroft’s hands fiddled with the hem of his bespoke trousers, and the man seemed to fall into himself for a moment. “It’s… Not something I can easily explain.”

Taken aback by the tortured tone in Mycroft’s voice, Gregory shifted on the couch with the anger brewing just below the surface. For now, it would hold off. “Alright. Just… Pull some governmental cover up bull crap on me and I swear I will walk right out and never talk to you again.” The need for answers was driving him to desperation. 

“I was supposed to be on that plane. I would have been, if I hadn’t misplaced my umbrella in the terminal in Heathrow and missed the flight.” Mycroft glanced off to the side with heavy shoulders, “The folder you have from Sherlock was from my study, and..”   
“And..?” Gregory prodded as Mycroft seemed to become distant and less willing to continue, “Look, I don’t need to know the details or whatnot. I just want to know why the hell you needed me, and why the hell you’re over here anyways.” There was a relief in the tightness of his chest as Mycroft admitted that it had been simple fate that had kept him alive, but the worry quickly took the place of the frustration. 

Sighing again, Mycroft went rather limp in the chair and leaned back, his eyes suddenly betraying the stress he’d been under the past few days, “And it’s a document involving monitoring former test subjects of a government program that never succeeded and had to be terminated back in the nineties.” He paused, recrossing his legs. Gregory found his eyes wandering along the dark grey material of the official’s clothing, but they snapped back up when Mycroft started talking again, “I needed you because you’re much better with victims and helping them than I am, or Sherlock. And I couldn’t have asked John, as you are aware of how my brother can be of his flatmate at times.” Mycroft glanced at the windows that lit up the small room with midday light, “I came over to America to try to establish contact with some of them due to a rising issue in some of the inner circles of government.” Exhausted eyes turned chilled as they refocused on Gregory. Shifting under the intense gaze, Gregory felt his boiled blood turn to ice as Mycroft’s voice fell an octave, “You repeat any of this outside of this conversation to anyone other than me, and I will make your life hell, DI Lestrade.”

Blinking at the change, Gregory managed a nod, retreating back into the worn couch cushions, “Mycroft, you know I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t endanger your career, or mine in that way.” He dropped an eyebrow in confusion at the threat that had just popped up.

There was a hesitant nod from Mycroft. Gregory got the feeling that Mycroft often didn’t have the full supportive trust of another, and wasn’t used to this kind of bond at all. The government man slowly breathed in, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” Another brief pause, “The plane, as you probably noticed, wasn’t… Didn’t break apart like a normal plane would’ve. I was supposed to be on that plane, but instead it was most of my closest staff… I shouldn’t be here, Gregory, and neither should you. Yes, they were targeting me. I do not know who, but I have a hunch it has to do with the investigation into the experimentation carried out back throughout the nineties. Someone doesn’t want me getting to the basis of what was done to the volunteers of the trails.”

“So… You’re doing a private investigation into some experiment back in the nineties, which was almost twenty years ago, and someone doesn’t want you to so they… For lack of a better word, destroyed the plane you were supposed to be on to prevent you from investigating further.” Gregory huffed in disbelief, “Why? If it’s been disbanded and ended, why does it matter now? Why would they try to kill you over that?” This all seemed very strange, and Gregory was quite aware of when a piece of the puzzle was missing, “And how come Sherlock gave me the folder and not Anthea?”

Mycroft unbuttoned his suit jacket and discarded it, wrapping the jacket up over his shoulders like one would put a blanket on. It was something that was rather atypical for Mycroft in Gregory eyes, and it was shocking to see Mycroft looking so vulnerable. Removing a piece of clothing from the man was like removing his shields. 

“I was one of the test subjects, Gregory. And the side effects of the tests are starting to appear, if you will. When I heard word, I decided that it was necessary to find the other subjects and make sure that they weren’t the ones causing the issues, which is one of the concerns.” Mycroft tugged at his collar, which caused concern to rise in Gregory’s throat. 

“What kind of side effects?” Gregory whispered, his eyes focusing everywhere but on Mycroft alone. Pieces were starting to clarify to him, but there was still just behind the curtains. 

Hesitating, Mycroft took a minute to reply, “I can’t tell you that, Gregory. I’m sorry.”

Gregory offered an understanding nod, “That’s fine, Mycroft. I’m glad you’re here, however. At least now you’ve got someone else on your side, right?”

Mycroft offered a weak hearted chuckle before standing, tugging the jacket up over his right shoulder as he went to head down the short hallway to the kitchen, “I do believe you were on my side from the beginning.” A rare smile, although faint, was there, and Gregory stood up and followed after the other. “You should get ready to head north in a few hours, DI Lestrade. We’re heading up to the crash site and interviewing witnesses, one in particular who called the accident in.”


	6. Update!

Sorry for the break- semester hit hard and it's very likely I contracted Lyme from one of my outdoor labs. 

Will be updating tonight or tomorrow depending on this storm!

-m.b


End file.
